The Land Where the Bong Tree Grows
by Rumour of an Alchemist
Summary: The account of the only known survivor of a ship which went missing in waters off the coast of a continent where the fabric of reality wears thin.  Fanfiction set in Paizo Publishing's world, Golarion. One-shot.    WARNING!  HORROR.


Note: Sarusan is a mysterious continent on the fantasy world of Golarion. Golarion is a world created by Paizo Publishing.

Disclaimer: I am not Lisa Stevens, Vic Wertz, Erik Mona, James Jacobs, or any of the other top brass at Paizo Publishing. I do not own Golarion.

Further Disclaimer: I am not Edward Lear, Beatrix Potter or H P Lovecraft. I do not own the poem entitled 'The Owl and the Pussycat', the story called 'The Tale of Little Pig Robinson' nor the Cthulhu mythos.

Further Note: With a few minor variations I have previously posted the following story on another website. I am the writer of the following short story, and I have given myself permission to repost it here...

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><p><em>Account by the second mate of the missing ship 'Ramolez', some adjustments from the exact words of the second mate having been made by the scribes recording his narrative for ease of readability <em>

We found it after drifting in windless seas off the coast of Sarusan for a month or more. At first we thought we must have stumbled upon some ancient wizard's paradise retreat, a playground away from the cares and toils of the world. A long low island, with sandy shores, and anchorages protected by reefs – we were running short of drinking water and it seemed a godsend. Of course we put a team ashore to investigate. And once they reported back, every man wanted ashore, to see for himself. Soon duties and cargos to be delivered were forgotten – even the Captain, stern Andoren that he was, took a fancy to the place and was in no hurry to put out to sea again.

It seemed too good to be true and yet there it was, an indisputable fact: a land where streams of boiling water flowed, where trees whose low-hanging branches were a veritable patisserie and where simple fired clay pots and kettles ready filled with coffee and tea grew on bushes. It was an obvious violation of the natural order of things – you can't convince me that cooked lamb cutlets growing on a vine is natural, or not unless you're in some dream or nightmare.

Maybe that was it – that we had blundered into the twisted slumber of some elder god – but it was as real to us as I'm standing here before you now, and right up until just before the end it was so enticing.

We explored the island. The dominant feature was a vast palm tree in the centre, at least half a mile high, which regularly sounded the hours. By day it was solemn and sonorous, by night muted and strangely comforting. We soon called it 'The Bong Tree' on account of its habits of so marking time, and soon referred to the island entire as 'The Land Where The Bong Tree Grows'.

There was a shortage of wildlife. Well there were oysters and shrimps to be conveniently had in plenty in the places where the streams discharged into the sea, meaning you could pluck them from the water ready cooked, and there were occasional spoors or paw-prints of some great cat which we used to keep watch for, but which never showed, but other than that there was nothing apart from the owls. Ridiculous great big things, a couple of feet high at least, which used to sit in trees and solemnly watch us. A couple of the lads yearning for a change in diet knocked several from their perches with sling-shots, killing them dead. They gave that up though, claiming it was on account of the meat tasting funny, but I think that the weirdly reproachful looks the birds gave them as they toppled from their perches without so much as a hoot unnerved them; well that and the fact that the _dead_ birds had no shadows, in any kind of light.

I'll always remember the ship's priest casually remarking to us, the last day that I spent on that island, that it was the eve of the Winter Solstice by his reckoning, although the climate was pleasant enough that you couldn't have told it. It passed much as usual, with ease and laughter, although occasionally the disconcerting sounds of a pig or boar grunting and snuffling echoed through the woods, whose source we could not trace. We didn't think it much unusual given the circumstances of such a crazy island where everything we could want for but women or wine seemed laid on for our convenience, and assumed we might track it in the next few days – if the mysterious unseen cat didn't get it first.

We took our evening meal as usual and went to rest in the rough shelters we had fashioned for ourselves of leafy branches that were miraculously impervious to the island's downpours in a clearing near the Bong Tree where there was a circle of ancient and cracked standing stones. The ship's priest had tried to determine to what deity they might once have been dedicated, but the signs on them were unknown to him, although some seemed to represent crude images of things such as flame or waves. At any rate they had seemed harmless enough, and we had paid them no heed save as convenient whetstones for sharpening our dinner implements once the priest had affirmed that they had no aura of malevolence to them.

We were woken at midnight by the echoes of the Bong Tree; somehow on that winter solstice night, the sound was changed, become harsh and menacing. We emerged from our tents to find our camp surrounded, by dozens of loaves, cakes, and buns, and in the centre of the ring of stones, naked but for the coarse dark hair that covered it, stood a creature that was a mixture of pig and hunched man. A golden ring was thrust through the end of its snout, and its porcine eyes glinted in the flickering lights of the hovering magical flames which illuminated the scene. Even bent and wizened as it was, it still stood some seven feet tall, overtopping all of us, and between the trotters of its forelimbs it clutched an ancient copper-bladed knife, the wavy edges green with verdigris. It snuffled and sniffed at us, and the surrounding circle of bakery squeaked and squealed as we stared, aghast. The currant buns shrilled malevolently in chorus. In a place where the status quo to which we had become accustomed was already far from natural, the paradigm had shifted and things were suddenly far from well.

Then the bosun, who even at rest kept a weapon to hand, swept out his scimitar and leapt forwards. The response was swift and awful, crushing any resolve that we might have had to fight. From out of the shadows lurched, shuffled, and in one final horrible spring bounded a gigantic loaf, at least the size of a draft-horse. It fell full length upon the bosun, knocking him flat, and there then followed a most ghastly scrunching, slurping, noise as it began to wiggle back and forth upon him. The unfortunate man's head was clear, and he began to scream and gasp, the sound of a brave man meeting a terrible end.

The rest of us turned and ran as one, leaving shelters and gear behind, our only thoughts to try and make the boats. The cakes and buns parted between before us, letting us free of the glade, and then with squeaks, roars, and bellows came chasing after us in what for them was clearly some sort of sport or ritual. Behind in the ring the sound of the boar shook the night air, as it bellowed in appeal to some archaic entities. The chase was on, and we were the sprats being driven by a school of merciless predators.

The pursuit through the forest was a nightmare, as colleagues and crewmates fell behind one by one and were run down. Stinging clouds of powdered coffee and tea, accompanied by driving shards of pottery, burst from bushes threatening to choke and maim us. Volleys of cutlets tore across our path threatening to trip us. At one point something like a great cat roared nearby, and the priest screamed once then was silent. I did not look back, did not stop to see what fates might be befalling my shipmates. I wept for the loss of those good men, but in my fear I did not dare risk stopping for even a moment to go to their aid, or to turn my eyes from seeking what hazards might lie ahead. The pursuit fell behind, little by little, and three of us made it to the beach. The ship was disappearing beneath the waters of the bay, in the grasp of some monster of the deeps with vast tentacles, the man we had left on board on watch no doubt dragged down with it. But still, we seized one of the ship's rowing boats, righted it, and dragged and pushed it as best we could towards the waiting surf. We were almost clear, the high point of each wave foaming around our feet, when the last horror came. Shadows of great birds swept out of the edge of the forest, sweeping across the sands, to catch up with us at the last. The missing shadows of the owls we had killed had found us, and now they wreaked their revenge, tearing with talons and pecking and stabbing with beaks. Somehow such flat shapes had all the power and substance – and ability to injure – of a living creature. And as they downed first one of my comrades, and then the other, dragging them back up the beach, they began to feed.

But by now I was past the oysters which snapped futilely at my feet, leaping into the boat, seizing the oars, and rowing desperately, striking out for the open sea. This unfortunately meant I was looking back, towards the beach, and seeing that as the shadow owls ripped and tore at my comrades, feasting on their flesh, rising from the shadows of those birds first bones and then flesh began to extend upwards as the birds somehow remade themselves with their gory feast.

Gradually the shoreline receded, and the final horror had soon vanished from sight. But I rowed like a madman, frantic and hasty, and did not ease off nor slacken my pace till I was certain that the sound of that tree which so dolefully marked the hours was nothing more than a rumour on the night breeze.

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><p>Author notes:<p>

This piece was originally inspired by an account of a plant in a fantasy world which did something at the time I regarded as slightly daft even for a fantasy world, until I remembered the existence of the Beatrix Potter story partially inspired (so I understand) by the Lear poem - and at that point it somehow became a personal challenge to fit the island (or at least a version of it) described by Lear and Potter into a fantasy world in a story, somehow. It got slightly Lovecraftian and well, this was the result.

This piece is a one shot, and I currently have no intentions of going back to this particular island or further exploring the torments of the sole survivor of the ship _Ramolez_.


End file.
